


Don't leave me hanging

by luxuries



Series: Lux. Whumptober 2020 [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: #JustWayneKidMoments, Dick Grayson-centric, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Touch-Starved, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:16:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26746486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxuries/pseuds/luxuries
Summary: Stronger people would have put a stop to it- but Dick? Dick is a weak, weak man.OR:Hanging in an unknown location was not Dick's preferred method of waking up, but what's a man to do? Might as well enjoy the psychological warfare.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Kinda - Relationship
Series: Lux. Whumptober 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947232
Comments: 7
Kudos: 95
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Don't leave me hanging

**Author's Note:**

> No 1. LET’S HANG OUT SOMETIME Waking Up Restrained | Shackled | Hanging. From the whumptober 2020 prompt list!  
> Content warning for non-consensual touching. It's not extreme but just in case!  
> Please let me know of anything else that should be considered a trigger warning.

Dick startles awake to the sound of hushed conversation nearby. Instincts scream at him to grab his police-licensed gun under his pillow, but his arms don't seem to listen. Frowning, he opens his eyes to a cement floor; decidedly not his apartment's old cream (perhaps it was once white) carpeting. His eyes widen in shock, trying to take in the unexpected environment. Four crummy walls, a rusted metal door and an uncleaned drain located just beneath him. Fantastic. 

Dick's body screams in protest at every subtle movement. His toes just reach the floor, forcing all his weight into keeping a tippy-toe stance. Shoulders flexing, he tests the bonds holding his wrists together. _Hanged up like a pig... Which super evil world-ending villain would this be?_ He's in the same clothes he went to sleep in; namely, pyjama pants and not much else. From now on he was never taking the suit off. It was easier that way anyways, less of a hassle. 

The door barges open and clangs against the wall- it would have bounced back to slap his captor in the face if not for it's sheer weight. What a pity.

"Slade." He remarks easily. This is a well known game between the two of them. The ease in conversation was not something new for Dick, a natural socialite; however, no one knew him quite as well as Slade. He knew him at his worst- he knew him at his best. He's seen Dick begging for mercy and he's seen Dick take out five men by himself. He's seen the rare dark streak in Dick, something he still sweats over. The thrill of stealing- of completing a mission and being rewarded. All this shared history led to a dangerous condition- fondness.

"Grayson. How's your day going?"

"Well, haven't had my morning coffee yet so I can't say." The statement held dual purposes- asking for a drink and the time; one for his sanity and the other for survival, depending on the time of day.

Slade, however, doesn't answer. He scoffs and approaches- his standard predatory stance along with his now familiar black and orange uniform makes Dick flinch. The restraints holding his hands dig further into his wrists, scabbed over wounds reopening. How long has he been here?

"How long was I out?"

The man lifts Dick's chin to face him, eye to eye. It reminds Dick of how small he was- how big Slade was. A dangerously serious eye calculates Dick's expressions like a hawk. If Slade was in uniform, he must be somewhere unfamiliar. Unless he's wearing it just to mess with him. Dick is at a loss over how he got here and when exactly. One moment he was safe and sound, falling asleep in his bed, the next he woke up chained to an unknown ceiling. _Tim would add this to his '#JustWayneKidMoments' collection on twitter..._ Dick thinks humorously, trying to lighten his current predicament. 

"Long enough." Ah yes, Dick's favorite. Slade's non-answers held a special place in his heart. Right next to Slade's crazed obsession with him. Charming, really. 

"Any chance you could, uhh, get me out?" Dick tries, putting on his signature smile which usually makes Slade relent. It twitches minutely when he attempts to lift his head higher, every movement a harsh reminder of the bonds that are holding him. 

Slade places a hand on his chest, contriving a confused expression on Dick's face. Before he can ask- Slade lightly pushes. 

Dick yelps as he slowly turns around. His legs dangle uselessly as he tries to regain his balance. The chains heave with his weight and clamber to turn with the little gravity applied. Almost magically, he ends with his back facing Slade. More beautiful scenery to be found in this new wall; the same grey cement and the odd brown and red (?) splatters. If you look closely you can find shapes of people long past.

This is the place where people go to die.

Dick doesn't have time to voice his concerns and complaints. He feels the light, feather-like touch of Slade's gloves tracing the curves of his back, along all the ridges of bones and muscle. His body tenses at the touch- shivering all over from the cold. And maybe something else. The chains bristle at the movement, betraying Dick's reaction to the touch. Dick tries to swing himself around, but the man holds on to his hips, keeping him tightly in place.

"Slade?" He breathes out, pain and soft gentle sparks of comfort or pleasure traveling up and down his spine. It reminds him of his mother, on nights when the thunder was a little too loud, the world a little too quiet. She'd trace shapes and words and stories onto his back, slowly lulling him to sleep. 

This was different.

"Slade." He repeats, firmer this time. More assertive. He wouldn't let Slade crawl under his skin. Not again. The near hit and miss of Renegade never truly left him- the ease at which he could be... controlled. It sickened him. It worried him. But mostly, it reminded him of his weakness. Of letting people so close they wring his neck between their hands with the words he willingly gave them. Of being so sincere because he grew up with people that loved him and nothing hurt- this painful ignorance/bliss wherein everyone is good and no one tries to harm him. Slade used this. Dick sometimes thought, when he couldn't sleep and couldn't stop thinking, that Slade knew him better than he knew himself. And, god, Slade abused it. 

Bruce said it was Dick's fault. Was it?

Slade steps impossibly closer. The weight of his chest, the warmth of it- leans over his back. It hurts but Dick is too distracted by the low breaths trailing across his neck. His skin is a mess of cold chills and warm fever. A pull and tug of something so simple and so unimportant. Dick wants to shake his head, remove the thoughts of warmth and relief. Dick desperately wants to see his expression, wanted to see what the older man was playing at. He wants to shake the mercenary off, both physically and psychologically. 

But instead he allows it.

He lets his body hang, as relaxed and open as he could be in the situation. Slade's muscled arms encircle around his waist, tugging Dick's body back to mold against his, offering a harsh and sudden relief from the pain in his arms. It makes him gasp. Slade doesn't speak. Dick really wants him to- wants him to break this trance he's trapped in. For now, he matches his breathing to Slade's slow controlled pattern, finding solace in the stability of it all. Slade noses along his neck, breathing in deeply- which would be creepy anywhere else- but somehow makes Dick's cheeks go red. It's warm, it's familiar. It's soft. Dick is like putty in Slade's hands. He hates it so much he loves it. Hosting an internal tug of war was taxing. Closing his eyes, he tries to imagine someone else holding him like this. The struggle of it reminds him there is no excuse. This is Slade. Callous, corrupt, and cumbersome. He is like no other, and Dick- Dick needs him. 

So when Slade lets go, drops him, exposes him to the pain he briefly forgot- He whines. Like a child. The loss of touch and warmth so stark to the old familiar feeling of being alone and cold. So cold. Dick is red from embarrassment and something... else. The soft sound of the door creaking open and then closed is his only reprieve from the shame. 

It really is Dick's fault, huh?

The mind games have begun.

**Author's Note:**

> F to my boy Dickie he's going through the ringer this month hahahaha


End file.
